


man's perdition is of himself

by trill_gutterbug



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Bruises, Coming Untouched, Hitting, Humiliation, M/M, Mild Verbal Feminization, Shame Edward Little Power Hour, Sol Tozer's Theme Song is Crazy Bitch by Buckcherry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:55:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24725626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trill_gutterbug/pseuds/trill_gutterbug
Summary: Lieutenant Little throws in with Hickey and gets more than he bargained for - namely, Solomon Tozer's dick.
Relationships: Cornelius Hickey/Lt Edward Little/Sgt Solomon Tozer, Cornelius Hickey/Sgt Solomon Tozer, Lt Edward Little/Sgt Solomon Tozer
Comments: 13
Kudos: 63





	man's perdition is of himself

**Author's Note:**

> Everything I write about Ned Little is for Poose, whether directly or obliquely. 
> 
> Title from [here](https://www.google.com/books/edition/The_Sincere_Convert/oSAuUa86_hUC?hl=en&gbpv=0), with some editing for uhhh old-timey grammatical creativity. 
> 
> Could, I suppose, technically be a sequel to [this](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24503539), but whatever!

Hickey had done it to him once, in the early days, and Solomon had thought - Well, he’d thought a lot of things. But chief among them, for an entire minute of utter relief, was, _Oh, that ain’t half bad._ Then it’d become a little better than half, and soon much more, before Hickey finally reached round to take his prick in a sure grip, so that Solomon spent all over himself without pause for pride. 

Solomon tried to touch Little’s once, and been rebuffed so soundly he didn’t dare try again. Made no sense to him, as Little’s prick had been pinked up tight to his belly at the time, clearly eager. But Little had shoved his hand away, panting, “No, don’t - don’t touch me - I don’t -” And not only that, he wouldn’t touch himself, either. It set Solomon’s hair on end to see it, the way Little sweated and groaned and shook with pleasure while Solomon was at him, flushed from neck to knob, then dressed shakily after without getting his own, hard cock tucked away in his trousers. It didn’t feel sporting, leaving him like that to shuffle hunched out of the tent. Rough handling, Solomon could fathom that, both the giving and the getting. The rest left him fuddled. 

“Curious,” said Hickey when Solomon finished that first time, slumping back exhausted with his prick out. Little, a mirror of Solomon, was collapsed forward on his elbows. Unlike Solomon, his arse was up in the air, shoulders low. His prick was still stiff, balls raised snug below it. Solomon’s spunk dripped down the inside of his thighs. “Never suspected you for a religious man, Mr Little.”

Little took a moment to respond. He didn’t like speaking to Hickey at the best of times, but he always seemed especially tetchy in moments like these. Not persnickety, like, but muddled. Like his brain was in it but his tongue wasn’t quite. He didn’t look at Hickey, either. His face was turned away, pressed to the floor of the tent, so Solomon saw only his mouth and nose. “I’m not,” he said. His lips looked dry, which made Solomon lick his own. “I don’t enjoy it.”

Solomon snorted, thinking Little was making a strange joke, but neither Little nor Hickey laughed with him. 

“Curious,” said Hickey again, almost sounding like he meant it. Solomon shot him a look, which Hickey returned with nothing useful behind the eyes, only a darting amusement. 

It doesn't seem to matter what Solomon does - or what Hickey does, when he involves himself directly. Solomon has only seen Little spend twice, and both times without a touch. Just Solomon’s cock working him. Once upon a time, Solomon wouldn’t have believed it possible, that a bloke’s body could do that, but he’s learned all sorts of surprising things lately. Little seemed upset both times it happened, scowling and embarrassed after, but silent even when Solomon said, panting and prideful, "There, Edward, that's alright, ain't it?" It made Solomon feel better to have it done; otherwise he felt guilty and poorly behaved, pounding away like an dumb straining horse. Not because he cared so much who got their end away that weren't him, but because Hickey had trained him up well from a condition of ignorance and Solomon did not like to shirk duties that made sense to him. 

This wasn't exactly what he'd planned when he and Tommy dragged Little to the sledge during the beast's attack. Little had seemed confused more than anything, only half-protesting, only barely resisting the force of Solomon's hands strapping him into the harness. He'd hauled lively as any of them, but then again there'd been the beast at their backs, and the shuddering specter of Mr Collins' stolen soul to motivate them, sharp as a tawse in an officer's hand. Solomon wasn't sure who else had seen it, if it'd only been him and Little. They haven't spoken of it since. Only exchanged a look at the time horrified beyond the ability of words, a fundamental sharing of experience no civilised tongue had words for. Solomon thinks of it day and night. It claws him from the inside, and sometimes he looks at Little and knows it claws him too. But they don't speak of it. Not even to Hickey, who might of anyone have something to say or do about it. Solomon longs to ask. When he has Little down on the ground in Hickey's tent, their faces close together, he sometimes almost whispers, "Did you see it too? Do you know what happened? Can you explain it to me?" but he doesn't. He doesn't think Little would answer. Instead, he only does as Hickey suggests, which is what he wants to do anyway, and fucks Little within an inch of his brittle life. 

"I like to see it," Hickey had said, shrugging, when Solomon once asked him why. Then his face became sly in that particular way and he'd said, "Are you jealous, sergeant?" 

"No," said Solomon honestly, frowning. It hadn't crossed his mind to be jealous. Hickey hardly touched Little, after all, and didn't take him to bed alone, the way he did Solomon. He watched Little how other men watched a peculiar insect or a street preacher. He didn't take Little into his confidence, or rely on him for support, or consult his opinion. He only said lewd, probing things to him and ordered him about like a sultan in a harem. Solomon, Hickey's instrument, didn't think it his business to have much feeling on it, jealously or otherwise. He was rife with sensation toward his fellow man in all manner of way, overly much sometimes, but Hickey had a gift for ferreting to the root of a fellow without hesitation. It would not have occurred to Solomon that Little might be an invert - although certainly he was pliable enough - nor that he might be agreeable to passing time with them even if he were. When Hickey had first said, his moustache damp from kissing Solomon, "Go and fetch Mr Little," Solomon had been confused and irked. His cockstand was insistent, his confused head swimming. He'd been bearing Hickey down on the blankets at Hickey's behest, and leaned back to frown. "What for?" he'd said, but Hickey only smirked and pushed him out of the tent. That Little had agreed and fallen into line with no more than a brief pause and a tragic expression floored Solomon, and reminded him not to underestimate Hickey in these matters. After all, had Hickey not plucked him unformed from nothing and shaped him according to Solomon's own half-understood desires? There was more than man to Hickey. More than Solomon could divine, at any rate. 

So when Hickey says now, lazily, from his recline on the bed, "Hit him, Solomon," Solomon only pauses for a moment. 

"Where?" he asks, tight-voiced, for he is jewels-deep and not much for wits. 

He catches Hickey's shrug from the corner of his eye. "Anywhere." 

The only clue Little gives he's heard this exchange is a gasping inhale and a twitch of chin over his shoulder in Solomon's direction. Solomon doesn't know if this means invitation or fear. It doesn't matter. He hits Little on the flank with an open palm, and nearly comes at the corkscrew tightening of Little's arse around him. He groans, and does it again. Same spot. Little’s braced elbows quiver. He groans. 

“Ah,” says Hickey, but Solomon is too overcome to look across at him. His socked toes are curling on the canvas floor, his back and arms all gooseflesh. He hits Little again, and twice more, until his palm stings. Little makes a keening, shaking noise, all bitten and swallowed. The flesh of his hip and arse go bright red in the shape of Solomon’s palm. 

“Again,” says Hickey. 

Little bruises easily, as do they all, but his bruises are purple and not sallow - livid at the edges, dark in the middle, a mottled hot bloom that ignites Solomon’s blood. He rakes his hungry nails down Little’s ribcage, over the dip of his spine, digging his fingers into the soft crest of a hip, so that the skin rises in his wake. His hips stutter, plunged deep. 

Hickey leans forward with a sudden avaricious expression, hands on his knees. He speaks near Little's bowed, curly head. "Everyone outside can hear, Mr Little. They know what's going on in here, the lot of them. Even that dull little cabin boy.” He flicks his eyes toward Solomon, lips curled at the corner in some jest that Solomon feels, somehow, only includes him by half. He stares back, trembling. “They know you're being beaten tits to cunt, and buggered besides.” Hickey’s gaze slides to Solomon’s belly, snugged up to the reddened, lifted curve of Little’s arse. “They know you enjoy it. They see you leave with your cock hard and your cheeks flushed. Do you think they’d trust an order you gave anymore, if you were in any position to be giving orders?” 

Solomon feels Little twitch. His belly and thighs shake under Solomon’s hands, but his head is down, forehead to the floor. His fists clench on the canvas. Solomon, arrested by Hickey’s words, gives a mindless thrust, then another, then the fire catches him and he can’t stop. He leans hard on the small of Little’s back, bowing him. He drives deep, rabid. He can’t look away from Hickey’s sharp bright eyes. 

“Or do you think,” Hickey whispers to Little, looking at Solomon, “that they’d all be pleased to come through my tent one at a time and take their pleasure on you? All at once? They’ve been long without women, Mr Little, not one of them would say no to a camp wife.” He puts his hand on the curve of Little’s arse and slides it around, between Solomon’s hammering hips, to catch his nails on the bruise shaped like Solomon’s hand. He lowers his lips near Little’s ear. “A man can be eaten alive as well as dead, Lieutenant.” 

And that is the third time Solomon sees Edward Little, with a wrenching sob like mortal agony, spine curved taut as a bowstring, spend without a touch on him.


End file.
